


Scandal Stories

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: AU, Air Force One, Ambition, America, Angst, Blenheim Palace, Boss/Employee Relationship, Choices, Defensive, Derogatory Language, Established Relationship, F/M, Fear, Fluff, Getting to know one another, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Lies, London, Long-Distance Relationship, Marine One, Multi, Nightmares, Olivia becomes US Ambassador to the UK, Oxfordshire, Pain, Politics, Reader works at the White House, Regret, Secrets, Sexual References, Spying, Stress, Strong Language, Truth, US Presidential Visit, Vermont, Worry, affair, black-tie dinner, fantasies, learning to live together, media, mental scars, mentions of the Marines, mentions of the Secret Service, post-show, references to the show, scotch, struggling to open up, struggling with the past, torn - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: A collection of one shots.
Relationships: Fitzgerald Grant/Olivia Pope, Fitzgerald Grant/Reader
Kudos: 38





	1. Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> I've been a fan of this show for years now and have wanted to write something for a long time, so I hope you enjoy these one shots that I'll be posting as and when they come to me. :)
> 
> They will mainly be featuring Olivia/Fitz, but this first one will be Fitz/Reader. I hope you enjoy it. :)

The low winter sunshine filters through the windows of the Oval Office, illuminating not _only_ the desk that the President sits by to do all his work, but the Presidential Seal and the people who are gathered on the sofa's and armchair for a meeting.

You are at the far end of one of the sofa's and it is one of the furthest points away from where the President of the United States-Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III-is sitting on his usual armchair, as he leads the meeting. A pile of notes rests inside an open folder upon your lap-the folder has the Presidential Seal on it as well-and a simple black pen hangs limply in your hand off to the side of it. You are looking straight ahead of you-at the other sofa and wall-more than at Fitz himself, _especially_ as he speaks to the other officials that are there, his low and by now, oddly familiar tone of voice acting as pleasant background music, whilst you close your eyes fleetingly, encouraged by the feel of the long-awaited sun upon your face. It has been a _long_ time coming. A long winter. But now that the sun is here it tricks you into thinking that you don't have to be _quite_ so on guard any more and you feel that you could fall asleep peacefully for the first in months- 

There is a shuffling movement all around you that makes your eyes _snap_ open. Your e/c eyes swivel towards Fitz. He is watching you with fixed blue eyes, the grey in them seeming particularly prominent in the light, two deep and pointed lines marking the top of his nose. His face is _both_ piercing and questioning as he looks at you. You swallow, taken back to the end of _another_ meeting the previous week where you'd paid more attention and Fitz had seemed solemn and grave, _firmly_ within his own mind. Although you'd _known_ that he was more liable to snap in such a state you'd been concerned and unable to stop yourself from looking back at him as you'd joined the queue to leave the room. He'd been stood before the side table, which had been close to where you'd been sitting, hand having just poured a glass of scotch and reaching for the glass, a strained expression upon his face. 

"Is everything all right sir?" the words had tumbled out of your mouth. 

Fitz had looked surprised. A few of the other officials who had turned to look had raised their eyebrows or had exchanged glances with their nearest neighbour. Some had done _both_ of those things. Cyrus Beene-the President's Chief of Staff-had made an impatient, exasperated noise in his throat and doubled back from where he'd been shepherding the queue, before he'd grabbed at your arm roughly. You'd prepared yourself for a bollocking. You were going to be _told_ that Fitz is the leader of the free world, that of course, what with the continuing war on terror and trying to keep the economy steady at home he has a lot on his mind and hadn't you _learnt_ that by now? But at that point-

"Leave it Cy," Fitz's voice had cut through your racing heart and you'd opened your eyes without even realizing that you'd shut them. The President had looked at you thoughtfully. He'd swirled the scotch around the glass, before he'd drunk it swiftly, deposited the empty glass back on the side table and made his way silently back to his desk. Your eyes had still tracked Fitz as you'd tugged yourself free from the grumbling attack-dog that is Cyrus and rubbed absentmindedly at the spot upon your arm. He'd _pinched_ it. Cyrus had gestured that you should leave with the others and you'd done so with the feel of blue-grey eyes upon you until the moment that you'd disappeared. You'd imagined the Chief of Staff putting _another_ load of pressure on Fitz by asking him if he _sees_ what he does-how women fall at his feet and how there would be _nothing_ worse than adding a _further_ complication to things right now whether he is currently talking to Olivia Pope or not. 

In the present everyone else is starting to rise and leave. You follow suit and begin to get up too, clearing your throat softly and pretending that you had heard the call for everyone's dismissal. Pretending that your heart is _not_ thumping with the President of the United States watching you. That your hands are _not_ clammy as they clutch at the folder of papers that they are holding. 

You begin to shuffle out. Fitz remains where he is this time, one leg deftly folded over the other. As you draw level with his chair, determinedly looking _anywhere_ but the President he grasps briefly at your hand, making you flinch and look down at him. It is a dangerous place to be and you swallow. He is smiling steadily, but with a trace of concern on his face for you and no one had _seen_ the interaction that you've just had because everyone else is ahead of you. Not even the beady-eyed Cyrus who has been watching you _both_ intently of late and who seems _relieved_ by the amount of distance that is being kept between you in meetings. It is like he is expecting you to have an _affair_ and you would call it ludicrous if you _yourself_ hadn't been fantasizing more about Fitz of late. 

"Are you OK?" Fitz asks you concernedly. 

"Yes..." The tips of your fingers touch against the arm of the chair that he is sitting on, before you get a hold of yourself. "I mean yes, sorry, yes Mr. President." His eyebrows rise at you. You are _both_ married. He is the President of the United States, you remind yourself. Even though he has been linked to people _outside_ of his marriage, such as your old friend Olivia, this is not, _you_ are not, even your _thoughts_ are tripping over themselves...

"Why don't you close the door and sit down for a moment?" the sound of his voice cuts through _both_ your mind and your attempt to escape him by clattering to the door in your dark heels. At his words however you stop dead _and,_ breathing heavily, slowly turn around. You can hear the phone going off and his secretary answering it in the background, but as Fitz languorously unfolds his limbs to get out of the chair to lean against his desk and face you it is all that you can focus on. His hands slide into his pockets and he has a sincere, but bemused expression upon his face, earnestly jutting his chin out a little. "Unless you think that I'm going to bite?" His eyebrows flick upwards.

"No, of course not sir." You let out a laugh that is not in your usual pitch, before you spin on your heel to fumble to close the door. You pause for a moment, forehead almost against it, hand touching at the handle. 

You hear his soft footsteps and get yourself together again, smoothing down your skirt with your free hand as you turn around. "You drink?" You look at him. He holds the decanter of scotch up to you, his eyebrows rising at you questioningly. "I just thought it would be what I'd be asking a _man_ right about now, kind of sexist for me not to be asking you, don't you think?" He smiles and your heart doesn't flutter. _Nope,_ not one bit. 

Your hands fidget as you consider your answer. "It's a bit early for me," you finally decide on what you _assume_ is the sensible option. He shrugs and pours a glass for himself anyway. The liquid looks golden and inviting as it enters the clear object, _honeyed_ by the light. "Actually sir"- He glances your way and you gesture that if he doesn't mind then he should pour you a glass also. The pair of you gather in front of his desk, clinking your glasses together. 

"Everything all right?" 

"Yes sir." You take a sip of the scotch first and let the taste of it fill your mouth, before you swallow. "If this is about the meeting then I'm most sorry sir. I can read you out anything that you want to know." 

"I don't _doubt_ it." You fumble to open the folder and hold the glass of scotch steady at the same time, but then Fitz neatly plucks the folder from you and places it upon his desk. "It's not about the meeting." The tension seems to increase between you, sliding into the air like the scotch had down your throat. "Is everything all right at home?" He touches at your arm, doing such a thing so delicately that you can barely feel it. "Is _Brian-?"_ There's a little upward movement of both his eyes and eyebrows as he tries to get his meaning across. Your heart skips a beat at Fitz mentioning your husband. "That is to say"-he moves his hand off you so that he can rake it quickly back through his hair and you find yourself inappropriately staring-"That _obviously_ everything is confidential around here, but he's seemed a bit trigger happy of late." You groan as you take that information in and hurriedly sip at more of your scotch, whilst you contemplate what you have just been told. Your husband works on counter-terrorism and keeping the country safe. He doesn't _hesitate_ to remind you that his job is _much_ more important than your _own_ of being the secretary of agriculture. Usually he takes his job very seriously and would try and be objective, but maybe if you've been frustrated then _he_ has as well? You swallow and come out of your thought, _fighting_ the temptation to fidget with your gold wedding ring like the President _has_ noticed you doing of late. "I know it must be hard." He takes your empty glass from you and sets both of them upon his desk, even though there is _still_ a little left in his. "That _both_ of your jobs must put a strain on your marriage and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for the service that you are giving to our country."

"I'm sure that whatever he's doing is"-

"I'm going to stop you there." He reaches for your elbow, the warmth of him this time filtering through the fabric of your dark jacket and causing you to get hotter in the process. "You think that your husband's job is more important than yours? Because let me tell you, your husband _may_ be important in helping to secure the safety of citizens, both at home and abroad, who are at risk from terrorism, but once that perimeter is in place, _you_ are the one who will be working with your counter-parts to re-build and restore the community and their faith in us. To let them _know_ that something good _can_ come out of this, so your job _is_ an important one." He releases a breath and looks into your eyes steadily. You feel like you've been given a private viewing of one of his speeches, this one _praising_ you, and you don't know how to react to it. You are _touched,_ but he must interpret your face differently for he says, "You don't think that was a good speech? _I_ think that was a good speech. I'm going to write that down." He reaches for some paper and a pen that are half-upon his desk. 

You wonder if he will _really_ do such a thing, before you are able to say because he is _not_ looking at you, "No, that was a good speech. Thank you Mr. President." At your soft, but still slightly sad tone he abandons his quest for pen and paper and looks back at you. You _know_ that he wants you to tell him what is _really_ wrong with you and you bow your head. "Do you ever feel that even _with_ the sacrifices that people have made for you and the good things that you have, that you are _not_ living the life that you want?" You force yourself to look up at him. The President looks troubled about what you have just told him and you realize that you may have overstepped and that of _course_ you are talking to the wrong person about all this. Fitz has a beautiful wife, has been linked to a _stream_ of beautiful women besides her, one of them being your old employer and presumably has the job that he's waited his _entire_ life for. "Sorry sir, of course you don't. I should probably go. Unless you want to hear the points that I made for the meeting?"

"You're not happy here?" Once again he's dismissive in that moment of _anything_ that relates to the meeting. 

You shift your position uncomfortably. He is looking at you and _acting_ as if your answer is most important to him, but you avoid his eyes as you say, "Of course it's a pleasure to serve at the request of the President." He huffs out a breath at the formal nonsense that you've just spouted. "It's just that...sometimes I wish that I could be doing a role that I feel _truly_ passionate about. Education maybe? Encouraging equality between the sexes and little girls into school," your tone grows wistful. 

"Why haven't you told me any of this before?" he sounds hurt and wounded, like he's got some things wrong about you. 

"You never asked." You meet his eyes truthfully. "And I never wanted to complain." You pull a bit of a face as you realize that, that is what you _have_ just been doing. "Also it was an"- 

"Honour to serve?" he guesses. 

"Well, yeah," you shrug at him. 

The President swallows and this time it is _his_ turn to avoid your eyes. "And your husband? Has it been an honour to be _his_ wife lately?" You open your mouth. "Sorry-Forget that I asked that-It was"- Fitz's hand reaches for his hair. You grab it, before it can reach its destination and look at one another in surprise. Your touch is light, but the fact that you are _physically_ connecting with him in that moment _still_ makes your heart jump into your throat and you find yourself waiting for security to burst into the room and pull you away from the President. 

"It's okay." He seems to _sense_ what you are thinking and twists his hand so that _he_ is now holding yours securely with his. His hand feels a little calloused, but mostly smooth. He gives your hand a little squeeze and his touch feels comforting. You want to hold on to more of him. You want to let him be your _anchor_ in that moment, before you think that, that's probably selfish of you as he has _enough_ to be dealing with. You breathe in and suddenly realize that it is _his_ scent and woody cologne that you can smell and that you are by his chest and you are not quite sure if you'd stepped forward or if he'd pulled you there. 

"I want to leave him," you confess, as the President's head comes down to hover by yours, possibly smelling your cherry perfume, "I'm just not sure"-

_"How?"_ Fitz asks you in a broken whisper that contains a _lot_ more emotion then there should be and you don't have to _look_ at him in that moment to know that he's smiling sadly at you. His hand splays upon your back. 

You nod, before you explain, "We met at uni. We were competitive then. I just didn't realize that it would"-

_"Be_ like this?" He pulls his head back, so that he can look you in the eye. Once more he seems to understand your thoughts a lot better than you'd expect him to. 

"Yeah I"- you begin to tell him, but then his hand goes to your waist, as if he really _does_ want to be your anchor and that wakes you up. "You're married," you blurt out. 

"I thought we'd _both_ established that, that was the problem for the pair of us?" he quips. 

Not thinking at all, just completely _taken_ with what he'd said, you lean up and kiss him quickly, _chastely,_ before you pull back from him and rub your lips together. You don't get the _chance_ to do much more than that. You feel Fitz's arms wrapping around you more securely, _holding_ you to him and he places his hands upon your cheeks, staring desperately at you for a moment with a sadness mixed in with a want that takes your breath away. He pushes his mouth down over yours. You whimper. In turn he breathes _heatedly_ when he draws his lips back from yours, before he dives back in again, his tongue demanding entry. You can _feel_ his hand reaching down to slowly push up your skirt, whilst you both fight to keep your lips connected and then it is splayed upon your thigh, the blue veins that you cannot see _pulsing_ to life. Both of your breathing becomes more ragged and your lips more disconnected and to try and fix this you wrap your arm around the back of his neck and hold his cheek steadier with your hand to try and keep him locked on you. Your _anchor._ This man who you cannot get enough of in that moment. Who oddly seems to _understand_ what you are going through and who just _so_ happens to be President of the United States and a married man. As you try not to think about such things your kisses get sloppier. Maybe he is fighting with his mind as well, for the little rubs that he is making against your thigh with his hand grow _firmer._ Your hands go instinctively to try and rid him of his jacket, but they scramble around without doing much more than flipping it off his shoulders. Nipping against your lips a little he turns you, getting ready to lift you on the desk, before it suddenly seems to occur to you both-

You are in the Oval Office. It is the middle of the day. _Anyone_ could have spotted the pair of you, a member of the Secret Service through the windows, or someone could have knocked on the door and then strode in without waiting for a reply [ _definitely_ Cyrus's territory.] There are probably cameras watching you right at this moment. _That_ is enough to make every part of your body grow instantly cooler. You begin to push him away, but the President is _not_ done with you yet. He shrugs his jacket back on properly, seizes your wrist and leads you out the door and towards the residency, letting go of you, whilst he marches past the Marines. You follow meekly after him, mesmerized, but wondering what the _hell_ you are doing. 

_"Sir!"_ you utter as you try and get yourself straightened out, a step or so behind him. 

"Shut up!" He continues to walk. 

With your heart hammering inside your chest you consider just turning around, but you don't _dare_ disobey him in that moment. 

Somehow you get to the residency and the elevator that leads upstairs without you having said another word or having stopped completely. Inside the elevator Fitz tugs you to him and gives you a quick kiss, keeping the desire that is there flooding between you, before he lets go of you again and gives a quick look around as the door opens and the pair of you step outside of the elevator. The Secret Service agent just outside of it speaks into the radio that he has-though the house is no doubt full of staff it won't contain Mellie, which is _something,_ as she is away-before the President takes you a little further down and _shoves_ you into a nook in the wall, kissing you roughly and leaving the member of the Secret Service, who is _still_ half-keeping an eye on you as he speaks into the radio no _doubt_ as to what you will be doing. Your breath, when you are able to release it, flutters. The President looks at you more gently as he stops crumpling your body with his own and then he takes your hand. He kisses at where a mark will no doubt be formed within the next few hours from where he'd seized your wrist, then at your ticklish palm, which makes you flinch and nearly pull away from him [Fitz chuckles softly at that] and then at your _mouth._

"Are you _sure?"_ the almost trembling words leave you, as he pulls back from you, but keeps his forehead close. 

"Do I _look_ not sure to you?" He frowns, swaggering down the hallway and he has a half-smile upon his face by the time that you catch up with him, his mood clearly improved. 

_"What?"_ you ask him. 

He takes your hand and pulls you suddenly sideways through a door. Your heart pumps more quickly when you see the bed. 

"Is this-?" He shakes his head, as in, 'No, this is not where I sleep with my wife,' and it is silly because it doesn't mean that you are _cheating_ on your partners any less, but it makes you feel _relieved_ somehow. 

Fitz kisses at your palm like before and your repeated reaction makes him chuckle. "I thought it might be nice if we got what we want for a moment, and right now I want _you._ Is that something _you'd_ be fine with?" There is light in his eyes as he smiles at you, already knowing the answer just from the _blush_ that is upon your face. 

"But what if-?" As much as you'd like to switch off and just go with it entirely the situation still worries you. 

"They _know_ not to disturb me and if the world blows up in the next hour then I'll be summarily told," he says wryly with a hint of bitterness about him. 

You think about that for a moment-the world blowing up, whilst you are having relations with the President of the United States. Your bodies and then atoms mixing in the _most_ intimate of ways and then you don't think much at all because the President is kissing you. 

"Let yourself _go,"_ he urges you, smiling as you nod. He holds you up and softly deposits you on the bed. You shiver when he touches at your ankles as he rids you of your shoes and tights, _groaning_ a little as your flesh is properly revealed to him. On the bed he bends to kiss you on the mouth encouragingly. Frowning a little he comes out of it and rids you of your wedding ring. He takes off his and places them _both_ on the bedside table. They seem to wink at you and your stomach _swirls_ with something for a moment, but you don't want to _think_ about it any more. You just want to _take,_ like he'd suggested that you do. You sit up and ease the jacket off him, exchanging a smile with one another. You jerk his red and white tie off him as well and he teasingly pretends that he's choking without making any noise to draw any attention, which makes you bat at his shoulder and grin, before you pop a couple of the buttons on the light shirt that he's wearing. His neck and collarbone more revealed to you, your body begins to _thrum_ with all the more desire and excitement. You push some of his shirt aside and then gently kiss and suck at his neck, being careful not to leave a mark there-with his wife away it wouldn't look good if the President suddenly showed up around the place with a hickey-but wanting it to be about him as well and making _him_ feel good. He grumbles and groans, his arm supporting you and both seemingly amused and pleased that you seem to be _already_ set on what you want to do to him. When you hit a particularly sensitive spot he jerks against you softly and you _gasp._ His fingers trace the curve of your breast around your clothes and then fumble around enough of your skirt and tights to slide inside your underwear. You arch up for him accommodatingly, forgetting your _own_ tasks for a moment, wanting him to reach-

"Ah, _there!"_ Your lips fall back to kiss his neck encouragingly, but they grow lazy and sloppy as the President begins to work you more, stretching you out, whilst holding you securely with his other arm. He grumbles a multitude of things at your slickness and then you are shaking and crying out, struggling for breath as you are brought to the best orgasm that you have had for months. 

Fitz slowly settles you down on the bed, rids both you and him of the rest of the clothes and smiles softly, before he enters you.

*

"Sweet baby," he says as he lies there afterward with you, the pair of you half-visible amongst the tangled sheets and cuddled close to one another, you in the Navy t-shirt that he'd thrown to you as he'd been tidying the pair of you up. "Sweet baby." _'Sweet baby,'_ like he's probably called his wife and countless others, maybe even _Olivia..._

You jerk away from his still exposed chest and sit on the edge of the bed. You can _feel_ Fitz rolling on his side to look at you, can see that eyebrow rising as it has peaked at every questionable or shocking statement that is made during a meeting and then you _feel_ the hand that touches at your hip. Your _naked_ hip. You want to vomit. You don't _care_ if this is the White House residency. In the past half-an-hour or however long all those intimate moments with the President had lasted, you might as well have been fucking _yourself_ and not him. The past few years have come undone in _moments._

"Are you regretting it?"

"Aren't _you?"_ you ask. 

There is a bit of a pause. "Not yet..." you can hear the smile in his voice and think, not for the _first_ time, that men just don't _get_ moments like this. For them sex is always a good thing and the complicated stuff, _if_ it comes at all, doesn't happen in their heads until later. Women _feel_ with all their heart until it spills over. "What are you thinking about?" He moves behind you, resting his head upon your shoulder. The robe that he's got on over his underwear wraps around you a little. Your hand reaches back automatically to touch at his wavy hair. You _love_ his hair and he _knows_ that already. His hand reaches under your t-shirt to play absentmindedly with your breast. 

"I-I owe Liv everything."

"I _know_ that," he says, defensive and grouchy, removing his hand from beneath your t-shirt as if he has just been burnt and going back to lean against the headboard. 

Your heart tumbles, but it does so all the _more_ when you look back at him. He _can't_ stare at you and looks straight ahead. He appears like a sullen child in that moment. "Look, maybe we-I mean Liv-Liv didn't _mind_ when I wanted to quit OPA and get married. She even _helped_ me to get this job."

"You think you made a mistake in marrying Brian?" He runs a hand back through his hair. 

"Don't you with Mellie?" you ask, before you worry that you've gone too far again, but their relationship can't exactly be _perfect_ since he _is_ sleeping around. You open your mouth to try and smooth things over, but there is no need, for-

"I should have waited." You sense that he is _not_ talking about you and you feel a chink upon your heart in that moment even though you have already gone _way_ beyond the confines of your head where you'd thought this fantasy was limited to. 

"Then maybe"-

"Stop thinking." His far away expression leaves and he reaches a hand out to you. 

"I want to stop hurting, stop _spitting_ on every one who got me here. I feel so ungrateful. Maybe I should just be fucking satisfied that this is my lot in life?" You take his hand and allow him to pull you back to his chest. Half-propped up against the pillows you hold on to him tightly, whilst he strokes at your hair. The robe that he's wearing billows around you both. 

"It's this place. It _does_ things to you. I'm seriously considering getting someone in to check the _air."_ You smile against him, but then his grip tightens on you and you can _feel_ him growing more serious. "Maybe the problem is that you _thought_ that you wanted it at the time, but you didn't after all?"

"Do you ever think that about the presidency?" You look at him. A jerk of breath leaves his mouth. "Sorry." You are nearly cross-eyed because your faces are so close together. He pecks at your nose and you smile. 

"Don't be. They don't call this the crown jewel of America's prison system for nothing." He pecks at your lips encouragingly, even as you look at him concernedly. "If you could go back now then maybe you'd ask Liv for a _different_ fix? Maybe you wouldn't leave OPA at all?" 

"Maybe I wouldn't be here," you murmur, not sure how you feel about such a thing. You face the front again. 

_"No."_ His grip tightens on your shoulder. "I think you would be."

_"What?"_ You peer up at him, a bit of a teasing smile upon your face. "You would have spotted how brilliant I am and offered me a position?"

"Maybe in education like you want," he's smooth.

"That would be nice," you say wistfully, snuggling up against him and allowing yourself to dream a bit more. For a moment you drift there and it is _oddly_ comfortable-you both think in that moment that you are _meant_ for different people, different directions, but for whatever reason you are at a point where your lives have tangled. You don't _know_ when it will happen again-or even _if_ your thoughts will ever be this similar-and want to make the most of it.


	2. Future Sunny Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a month since Olivia and Fitz have been in Vermont together and Olivia is struggling to move on from her past and open up to Fitz.

Olivia sees Mellie, Cyrus, Hollis and Verna all looking at her, _waiting_ for her approval of their election rigging plan. She sees a memory of Fitz and her at the hotel and how she'd once told him that he'd make a great President. She _feels_ the tightness of her breath in her throat as she remembers what they are up against in order for him to even have a _chance_ to be such a thing. This might be the man who Cyrus _thinks_ is a once in a generation, maybe even a _lifetime,_ find, but the facts and the statistics of the two campaigns read differently. As charismatic as Fitz is: they are losing. They might not _win_ without doing this and can they _really_ take that risk? She wants this for him. He _needs_ to win. That is what she desires, more than anything for her own personal gain. As soon as she agrees though things become a blur before her eyes and she sees the _consequences_ of what they have done and herself resigning from the fledgling government. She sees herself going up against the White House via Olivia Pope and Associates, sees herself _working_ with the White House again, becoming _entangled_ with Fitz and things getting messier and messier, time pelting forwards and all her feelings growing all the more torn and conflicted along the way. She feels the _pain_ of being essentially the mistress, the _servant._ Feels like she is in a _choke_ hold when she sees the events that lead up to Jerry Grant's death and then first believes that it is her mother and then her _father_ who is responsible for it. She sees only a _brief_ glimpse of the better moments of the island-the worst had been whenever she'd doubted whether leaving Fitz had been the right thing-for it is like she cannot open up that image properly and then she feels the deep _pain_ of Harrison's death and the separation of her team, before finally she is stranded and on her own once she is kidnapped and instead of being able to escape those memories and have any hope at _all_ for her future the painful ones from her past just play over and over again repeatedly- 

Olivia lets out a yell as the reel of images starts again, before she sits up in bed, her hair threatening to go curly. She hasn't been as fussy about straightening it ever since they had gotten to Vermont, she is _trying_ to tell herself that she can _relax_ now and teach herself that through her actions. In the present, however, her mouth is gaped to let out her uneven breaths and her mind and fingers both _scramble_ for something to hold on to. The images that had been before her retreat back into the darkness of her mind, but she still thinks that she is in that time again, that she is living in her old apartment until the shapes begin to grow distinct in the night and she _knows_ that it is not her apartment. When someone stirs beside her she doesn't even _wonder_ if it's Fitz or Jake or someone else entirely. She just _knows._

_"Liv?"_ Fitz's voice is rough in the night. "You okay?" He scrubs at his face and peeks up at her, before he reaches a hand out towards her. It lands on her leg, her _thigh,_ and because she is still feeling vulnerable she pulls away from him. "Sweet baby?" his voice is a tired, concerned caress in the darkness and one that is vaguely _hurt_ by her action, but one that she can't deal with. 

"I'm _fine."_ She folds her arms across her chest. "Go back to sleep Fitz."

_"Livvie,"_ his tone admonishes her and she _knows_ what it means. They are supposed to be a _team._ They _came_ here to be a team. 

"I'm _fine,"_ she tells him more quietly, but still _fiercely,_ looking at him as he sits up and stares at her. "Go-back-to-sleep," she enunciates each word clearly, her eyes wide, her eyebrows raised in reason. 

He still looks at her, as if she might _yet_ drop her defence and tell him what's wrong. Finally he must understand that she's not going to and he lets out a bit of a sigh. "Okay...if that's what you _want._ You used to tell me things. At one point you'd _only_ ring me up if there was something wrong and now you can't even"-his gravelly voice breaks off regretfully, _sadly,_ and there's something about it, maybe the way that he is in so much _pain_ in that moment and in the way that he turns his back on her, cupping the pillow to his head with one hand and shuffling to the edge of the mattress that makes Liv's heart dip inside her chest. Leaves her awake _long_ after the soft sounds of Fitz sleeping echo inside the room. 

*

When she wakes, feeling uncomfortable and with a heavy head, like she just wants to _cocoon_ herself in the duvet and block out the sunlight that is filtering into the room, Fitz has already left, his side of the bed crumpled and unmade, probably on his morning run to let off some steam. 

She forces herself up, her mind still _worried_ about the conversation that they'd had the night before or the _lack_ of one. She knows that Fitz wants her to be more open with him and can understand his frustration, _but..._ it's not as simple as just her opening her mouth and letting all the words fall out. It is not the _way_ that she was brought up. She was never _taught_ to express her feelings and be some open little book for people to read. Her father had managed that anyway. She was _much_ more closely taught to be some logical robot. Likewise with her career it hadn't been the _right_ thing for her to do. Clients hadn't _needed_ someone to hold their hand. They'd needed a _gladiator._ As had the White House whenever she'd worked for them. Cyrus Beene wanting her to come to the White House so that she could hold his _hand?_ It was unimaginable. 

She sheds her clothes and steps beneath the shower, feeling more like the Olivia Pope of old. If only _that_ Olivia was needed right now. She bites at her lip, her hands cupped against her hair underneath the spray. _Fitz..._ she _knows_ that if her relationship with him is going to work then they- _she_ -needs to start working as less of an individual and as more of a team, but she _can't_ handle him either. She can't treat him- _their_ relationship-like she would have done one of her clients. Yet if she _were_ handling it in that way then it's like she can't _force_ herself to do what needs to be done in any case. She keeps _trying_ to be more open with him, but so far she just keeps returning back into the safety of the person that she's _always_ been without ever becoming anything _more_ in the process. She marvels at how people can even _do_ relationships. How anyone even manages to last a _month_ with someone else like she has been with Fitz. A _month..._ she scrubs shampoo into her hair aggressively and tells herself off, listing all her faults in her mind. She _has_ to make this work. _This_ is her challenge now. Her life with _him._

*

When she gets out of the bathroom Fitz _still_ isn't back from his run, so she makes herself a drink and takes it outside, sitting on the bench that's on the front porch and sipping at her beverage rather than getting any breakfast. She doesn't much _feel_ like eating anything and she knows that Fitz, for _all_ their talk about her making jam when she's out here, does _not_ expect her to ever become the perfect housewife type and for that she feels _immensely_ grateful to him. She'd have to _learn_ how to cook for one thing...

_Finally_ she hears him. He comes back towards the house, still in a bit of a jog, before he slows down when he sees her. The light hits the waves of his hair. At a bit of a distance he examines her, assessing whether to opt for just a polite remark and go back into the house or whether she wouldn't _terribly_ mind his company. 

Still not sure he decides to test a little something out. "Hi," he ventures. 

"Hi," she smiles, the corner of her lips wriggling upwards in spite of herself like a fish on her father's hook at the familiar remark that passes between them. It _also_ reminds her of the nightmare that she'd had and everything that has happened between them and she more somberly covers her mouth with the rim of the cup so that she can take another sip. 

"Mind if I-?" He nods at the part of the bench that's still free. 

"Not at all." She lifts her head up from her cup, squaring her shoulders if they are going to do this and _readying_ herself for a likely fight, turning defensive in spite of the fact that she doesn't _need_ to any more. She offers him a bit of a fake smile. 

He meets her gaze evenly, sits beside her and looks out into the place that has _always_ been theirs, but which they have _both_ only recently started to live in together. "You still want to do this?" He doesn't look at her as he says those words, but afterwards he turns his head to her, _smiling_ as if he is trying to be brave, but as if he might _yet_ yield into sadness. 

Something about those words or his expression jolts her enough to say, "I-I have these nightmares sometimes." It's _her_ turn to look away. Fitz doesn't say anything even though he _knows_ that she does. He doesn't _have_ to have her tell him when she tosses about in her sleep, as if she is fighting an invisible enemy and yells out. _Seeing_ Olivia like that...it is just as awful as Abby had once warned him it was. "About everything that happened. Sometimes they're in order, sometimes they're not. They might focus on different bits or they might have a theme. My parents... _us_...last night's one was like one of those flip books that kids used to have. You remember them?" She manages a smile and he nods, even though he feels pain too, for his late son had used to have one. He wonders if his daughter Karen has still kept hers? "Everything pretty much in order up to my kidnapping"-Fitz looks _haunted_ as he remembers that time and the _stress_ that he'd been under, not only had Olivia been gone, but he hadn't known _who_ to trust-"Do you ever wonder how we got here? Or about if one tiny thing had been different? What would have happened?" 

"Is this the outcome you _wanted_ though Livvie? Is this what you would have said that you desired if the _old_ you had asked what you wanted the result to be?" The answers to such questions in that moment are _more_ important than reminiscing or beating himself up for the past with her. He _can't_ bring himself to look at her. 

"Is it for you? Is _this_ what you would have wanted, even if I can't always open up to you?" she both tries to buy time _and_ hint at what she's struggling with. 

He looks at her with sincere eyes and a serious, sad smile unmoving upon his face. "You _know_ it is," he tells her in a husky fashion, but the thought that she might not _want_ this life with him any more makes his heart ache. The idea that for her they might already have failed, before he's ready to admit defeat...

She looks at him. At his eyes, nose and lips, the sweeping planes of his cheekbones, the errant _waviness_ of his hair and how light and emotion dance off it all. She brushes a strand back. A touch-starved Fitz almost _groans_ from the contact. _"Yes."_ She draws away her hand. "It is, but it's...." He grabs at her hand as she trails off, letting her _know_ that he will be there for her and holding it in between them, as he had on a campaign bus once a long time ago, his fingers in between hers. "More complicated than I thought, than I would have _liked_ it to be. The old me"-she squints at him more than looks at him, but his face is open and accepting if not for the fact that he'd like to take away her pain-"The one that we just talked about? It's not so easy to shed her sometimes and to _embrace_ this new life." 

He squeezes at her hand. "I don't expect you to discard her for me. All I ask, is that, if you still want to be here, with me"-

"I do," she's quick to assure him and the corner of his lip twitches up into a smile at the progress that they seem to be making, which eases some of the growing worry that he's had over the past month and makes him hope for marriage and babies with her again. 

"You'll try something out?" Olivia tenses, but when he presses at her hand with his she remembers _who_ he is and looks at him more trustingly. "I _know_ that it's hard for you to share your problems and what you are thinking with me sometimes. I _hope_ that in time you might be able to do such a thing automatically, without even _thinking_ about it, but if you _can't,_ if you find yourself _wondering_ whether to tell me or not, I hope that you'll always know that I'll be here for you at least. That I'm not _going_ anywhere Livvie. No matter _what_ is going on with you I'm here for the long haul if you want me to be. I want you to know that I just _want_ you to be happy. That, _that's_ the most important thing for me and whatever your feelings are and lead to then _that_ is my priority. Can you bear that in mind for me?" He wants her to feel _safe_ here, with him. He knows that, in the end, that's the _only_ way that she'll ever be able to open up to him. 

She nods determinedly and tilts her head against his upper arm, breathing in the sweet scent of sweat over his woody cologne and the pair of them become silent. They listen to the insects in the grass and the occasional cry of a bird in the sky. It is _so_ peaceful out there and so _different_ from Washington D.C that for a moment the pair of them take a minute to just _be._ He is no longer the former President of the United States. _She_ is not a former Washington fixer. They don't _have_ to get their hands dirty in anything but the natural world. They are man and woman. Olivia and Fitz. _Finding_ a way to be together in this strange, strange world, but for a moment Olivia thinks that they can _actually_ do such a thing...it will take hard work, but with his patience and her determination in that moment her future with Fitz? It's _shining._ She lets out a sigh, feeling content, warm and happy and like she can be less harsh on herself for the first time in a _long_ while.


	3. Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz catches Olivia resigning and the future changes for them.

The Oval is empty. In spite of that Olivia walks quickly to the ornate desk, reaching the front of it in no time since the room is _smaller_ than what most people imagine it to be. For a moment she just does what she'd gone there to do and places the letter that she'd brought with her on the clear space that's in the middle of the desk, facing it towards the person who will be reading it. The President. Not _Fitz_ -as difficult as it is she tries to _only_ think of him by his title in that moment because then her lips won't succumb to their trembling and she _won't_ cry. _That_ gets difficult to do though as she adds the flag pin that she has also been carrying on top of the letter and the memory of when she'd first given it to him on the day of his inauguration resurfaces, before she allows herself to turn slowly around and _away_ from what she has just done, touching on to the desk for support as she does such a thing. She takes a bit of a deep breath and uses the opportunity to observe things that she doesn't _usually_ get the chance to when she's doing her job of communications director and reporting to the President. She doesn't _ever_ expect to be back there again so she tries to appreciate it. 

Instead of being able to do such a thing, however, memory after memory blurs her eyes. 

In the end she abandons her position by the desk and pours herself a glass of scotch from the decanter that's kept on the side table by one of the sofa's. She sits down with it, right on the edge of the pale, but elegant fabric, sipping at her drink and _laughing_ at herself, trying to get herself under better control. 

It takes an unusually long time for her and then, _right_ as she thinks that she might have mastered it and slung the memories far enough away in her mind _Fitz_ returns, looking tired but pleased with himself, having just delivered his State of the Union speech. It strikes Olivia how _long_ she must have been sitting there, for when she'd entered the office he'd _still_ been in the middle of making it. She'd thought that she would have been safe by now and asking Verna Thornton if she could borrow her plane to help save Lindsay Dwyer, who has been implicated in all of their mess and who Olivia feels as if she _owes_ this one act to. It will also be much harder to leave Fitz, she knows, if they have to have an upfront conversation about things. 

"Well, this is a nice surprise," he says as soon as he spots her, closing the door behind him. He sees the glass of scotch that she's nursing. "Is everything all right?" His eyebrows rise and his blue eyes grow concerned for her. She pulls a bit of an inconclusive expression. "Or are we celebrating?" He strides across to get his _own_ glass of scotch, flashing her a bit of a grin on his way, "Because, just so you know, I'm _definitely_ down for that." His eyes sparkle. 

"It was a good speech," she allows herself to be amused with him for a moment, before she recovers herself, drains her glass, puts it back on the side table and stands up, as if to lay the groundwork for their miniature party being over, before it has even begun. 

One of his hands _freezes_ around the decanter, the other not yet having pulled the stopper out, but in place and ready to. _"Liv?"_ His eyebrows scrunch and the lines between his eyes grow all the more prominent. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" He abandons his quest for scotch and takes a step to the side, so that he is in front of her. _Both_ his eyes on her along with his tense stance demand answers, but she can barely look at him. He touches at her hip and she shies away from him. A frown appears on his face.

"You should read this." She goes around to get the letter from the neat spot where she'd left it and Fitz notices the glint of the flag pin in the light when she pushes it off the letter. 

"You found it?" He wants to know what the letter is about, but is distracted by temporary joy at seeing the flag pin. He quickly regrets asking about it though when Olivia flinches, before she goes rigid. He stares at her. 

_"Mellie..._ wanted me to return it to you." Fitz doesn't say anything. He doesn't _need_ to. Just by mentioning his wife she has created some distance in between them and he feels _angry_ for the thing. Even if it is the truth he almost thinks that she should have _lied_ to him rather than say such a thing. 

"What's that?" He nods at the letter. Olivia glances at him warily and suddenly he sees the reality that they'll shortly be stepping into in her eyes. "You're leaving me? _Us?_ This administration? After you put me here? You're just going to walk _away_ from it all?" It's like a sucker punch to the stomach. He feels winded and shocked. Olivia lowers the letter, confirming his words. "Are you at least going to tell me _why?_ Do you say so in there?" Again he nods to the letter. Olivia swallows. _"Liv?"_ He places himself in front of her. "You're at least going to tell me _why,_ right? That it's for something _important?_ Because I _know_ that, that would be the only reason that you'd ever"-

For one wild moment she wants to tell him. She wants to tell him about Lindsay Dwyer and how she _needs_ to protect the girl, that even if he _doesn't_ understand the thing because he is so protected and shielded from things like this, there will be many more people like that, who _need_ someone on their side because of what either the administration or the _people_ in politics are doing, even if it is only to save their _own_ reputations and she wants to _be_ someone for those people. Tell him about how maybe that is more important and _right_ than staying in government _herself,_ but that would also mean telling him about Defiance and what they'd- _she'd-_ done, so instead she opts for another truth and _maybe_ the most personal of them all, the part that she tries not to acknowledge as much, but cannot help: "I can't-I _can't_ come here any more. To this place, to see"-

_"Oh."_ At last Fitz gets it. She can't look at him any more. _That_ is what they have come to. She can't be around him and feel second place to Mellie any more, like she is _just_ another member of staff who's serving at the pleasure of the President. Like she doesn't _mean_ anything to him. It's killing her inside. It's killing _him_ slowly to keep up the charade as well, but-"You _can't_ leave me." He _knows_ that he'd die without her. He'd rather suffer _with_ her than have his one lifeline thrown away. Does she not feel the same?

_"Fitz..."_ She looks away from him desperately, not wanting to be moved by the emotion in his eyes. Can't he _see_ how difficult this is for her? 

"You _can't_ abandon us after everything we've been through, when what we've worked so hard for is _finally_ starting to happen. You're going to run now when you _know_ that I can't follow you? I never thought you would be _this_ cruel, Liv." He steps a little closer to her and lifts an eyebrow, as if to ask her to recant her words. When he sees that she is _not_ about to do such a thing or even _speak_ he bridges the gap between them.

_"Fitz..."_ She shivers as he runs a hand from just beneath her elbow to her wrist. 

"Do you want a different role?" his voice is soft and husky. "One that would make it easier to-? Because you _know_ that I can get you a different role." He looks at her steadily, _praying_ that his words will be able to get them both through this and that she _won't_ run away from him. That she won't _pretend_ that everything that is between them doesn't even exist. 

"I told you it's _not"-_ her voice is just about steady and she looks at his chest rather than at his face. 

He tilts her chin up. "I don't _believe_ it when you say that you want to leave." He lowers his hand, tangling his fingers with hers and she looks up at him. "You want to go? You wouldn't be reminiscing around this office. You didn't want me to find you? For us to be _having_ this conversation in this moment? Then you would have been _gone,_ Liv. You wouldn't have been waiting for me here." 

"I _wasn't"-_

"Come on Livvie." His eyes widen and then soften compassionately as if to say that she should stop fooling around. That this is _him_ that she's talking to here. "Mellie and the flag pin _might_ have brought this on, but there's got to be _one_ role that you'd be happy to have even if you don't want your current one any longer?"

He's only got it _partially_ right and it irks at her for a moment, but then she decides that it's probably to her benefit that he seems mostly willing to believe in such a thing, so she thinks about his proposition. _Knowing_ that the vacancy is coming up and thinking that he would never agree to let her have it and that he might _yet_ realize that they are done and let her go, she says, "US ambassador to the UK."

As predicted he does _not_ look happy about the prospect of her being across the ocean and in an _entirely_ different country from him and lets out a sigh, before he makes good on the scotch that he'd been denied earlier. He sips at it for a moment and swills it around his mouth. She watches him with bated breath, half-hoping for the outcome that she thinks is inevitable and half _not_ so, going on to think about what she has to do that night to help save Lindsay Dwyer and then about how she will _finally_ be able to set up Olivia Pope and Associates. She runs through a list of people in her mind that she'd like to recruit. She's _still_ doing such a thing when Fitz finally blurts out, "Fine." She thinks at first that she has misheard him. 

_"What?"_

"If you need distance then _fine."_ He puts the nearly empty glass of scotch down on the side table. "I'll give you the job." He makes to head out of the Oval and to the residence. _Then,_ perhaps because of how she's not saying a word he looks at her over his shoulder. _"What?_ Did you really think that you meant so little to me? That I wasn't going to _fight_ to keep you here or at the very least tied to the administration?" He shakes his head. By the door he turns back to her. "I can't _breathe_ without you Livvie." 

They lock eyes for a moment, his firm and resigned, hers uncertain, before he walks out the door, leaving it partly open so that a breeze whirls around where she's just standing there. 

*

_London._ It's different. Not either good or bad. Just _different._

Olivia had, had enough time to get Lindsay Dwyer [or _Quinn Perkins_ as she is now known] out of her situation and had brought her to the UK with her. She would have left her in the care of the people that she'd been _hoping_ to work with in Olivia Pope and Associates, but since she is still working for the President and had _known_ that she would be out of the country before long it hadn't exactly been appropriate for her to set up the company. [Like Abby Whelan, one of Olivia's close friends, had told her, 'You can't have Olivia Pope and Associates _without_ Olivia Pope.' At least not to begin with.] So Quinn had come with her initially and Olivia had sorted out an apartment for her. _Still,_ at the beginning she'd hung around Olivia as much as she'd possibly been able to, before they'd gradually drifted [it had become slowly clear to Quinn that _although_ Olivia had given her an out she wasn't about to mentor her, having had _enough_ to be getting on with herself] so Quinn had found a job and some friends of her own. Olivia had kept an eye on her from a distance, but mostly let her get on with it, _happy_ that, that side of things had seemed to be solved even though Defiance had still eaten away at her and she'd often dreamt about the moment she'd agreed to the plan. 

Olivia had settled into her _own_ job, half-aware that it had once belonged to, at one time or another, five men who had later gone on to become President and wanting to make the _best_ of the surprise opportunity that had been handed to her. 

In between presenting American policies to the British government and its people and reporting British policies and views to the American government, acting as the main form of communication between the two nations and adding her opinion in treaty negotiations, she'd gotten _used_ to living in the thirty-five room Winfield House-an English townhouse in central London with twelve-acre grounds-and accustomed to the British weather, learning to carry a fold up umbrella in her bag at all times. She'd set up a boundary whenever she talked with Fitz, speaking _only_ of work matters, which had seemed to frustrate him, but which had allowed her to be able to _keep_ doing her job. That wasn't to say that she hadn't gotten _lonely,_ however, and she'd gone out with a string of British politicians, none of whom had satisfied her for more than a few weeks at a time and who she was _sure_ that Fitz had known about from his occasional frosty remarks and near accusations that she seemed to be having, _'fun_ over there.' Still, it was easy enough to ignore those for the most part because Fitz was in _America._ That was until the trip of the President of the United States to Britain had finally been given a date and suddenly the only distance between Olivia and Fitz had been a few months...

*

"Go there with you?" Fitz had nodded at his wife's question. "So that I can watch you get all hot and bothered on the flight as you think of your whore and then be _forced_ to endure you crawling all over me instead when you realize that she's just not that into you any more?" Mellie had shaken her head. "No thank you honey. Think I'll just wait here, give you a chance to cool down on your return flight." Her hand had glanced over his shoulder, before she'd left the room, full of the sort of smug triumph that she'd been possessed with ever since Olivia had left the country. 

So Fitz finds himself gazing out of one of the windows of Air Force One-pointless really as all he is able to see is the impenetrable cloud-and wondering if it will _really_ be like that. He _knows_ that Olivia's been seeing people. Cyrus, his Chief of Staff, has kept him up-to-date with _every_ online photo and article of Olivia strolling in town with her latest conquest, often arm-in-arm. Photos that had seemed to arrive at a _greater_ frequency in the run up to the working visit-a state visit will have to wait-a visit, which Cyrus had disapproved of and Fitz hadn't known _how_ his Chief of Staff had even learnt about him and Olivia in the first place. All he'd known was that Cyrus had _tried_ to make as much trouble for Fitz at home as he'd been able to in order to convince him to stay, but Fitz had been adamant ['I'm _going_ to the UK, Cy.'] So Cyrus had upped the ante and incorporated photos from Olivia's security people of her dates as well. He'd felt a knotted ball of jealousy and _anger_ at seeing each one of those, before he'd eventually wondered if he should be happy if Olivia is, surely that is _all_ that matters? But an inescapable part of him cannot help but think that they are _meant_ to be together. That he is _right_ not to give up on them. That the fact Olivia hasn't been _able_ to date anyone for more than a few weeks at a time means that he's still in with a chance. There's still _hope_ for them. He just wishes that the visit will prove to be worth _while_ for the pair of them....

*

Waking up that morning Olivia feels rested, warm and content for one moment, before she remembers what day it is. She gets up, showers and dresses hurriedly, trying not to _think_ right in front of her, before they'll be leaving in Marine One together and making their way to Winfield House. Fitz will be staying there that night. It won't be as if they'll be _alone_ together, and even if they _would_ have been for that time then it would have been infrequently because the schedule is _packed._ That day is the lightest of the two since he is only just arriving in the early afternoon, but there is _still_ a black-tie dinner set for that evening at Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire where a number of business leaders will eat to the sounds of the Countess of Wessex's Orchestra. Olivia will be _introducing_ Fitz to people at the banquet and it will still be a _lot,_ she knows, to suddenly be around him again after nearly a _year_ apart. She tries to mentally prepare herself, despite the busyness of those last few Fitz-free hours, putting on an invisible layer of armour along with her usual long, white coat. 

It doesn't prepare her. Doesn't prepare her for how he unfolds himself out of Air Force One, his height a hindrance for once, _or_ for those darting blue eyes, which always seem to find her in a crowd. Her heart skips a beat when they do such a thing and something hardens around her mouth. He seems perturbed by it for a moment, before he remembers, again, where he is and flashes the awaiting politicians and media his trademark smile, adding a sweeping wave for good measure. She tears her head away as he trots athletically down the steps, body as trim as ever and then suddenly-

_"Hi."_ He is in front of her, blue eyes scanning her face, looking for wear and tear like _she_ had sub-consciously been aware that _she'd_ been doing when _he'd_ first stepped out of the plane. 

She swallows back the repeated, _'Hi,'_ that she would normally tell him and instead fixes a false smile on her face, grasping at his hand in a brief, but firm shake, before she lets go of it once more. "Mr. President, how good to see you."

_"Liv."_ He seems disappointed by her business-like manner, but what does he expect from her? There are cameras everywhere. The inevitable conversation that they are _bound_ to have will have to wait and _that,_ for the moment, is just how Olivia likes it. 

Fitz seems _less_ keen on the idea, however, and as soon as they are aboard Marine One he asks, "How have you been?" 

"Well, thank you." She smiles in a forced fashion, looking at the people around them as if she is _not_ going to say anything more whilst they are all there. Fitz sighs, but _knows_ that as the flight isn't a long one she will _have_ to talk to him at some point and hopefully about _more_ than formalities. 

Such a thing overtakes them for a little while, however, when they get to the house. There is the staff greeting them and then Olivia _insists_ on showing him around and he has to _pretend_ to be interested in all the antique furniture, the artworks, porcelain and lavish chandeliers when what he is _really_ interested in is trying to find an opening so that they can have the conversation that they _need_ to and when there are less members of staff about. Everyone seems keen to help him, but he could not give a _damn_ about the house, which looks like so many others that he has been in, in his time as President and where all the facilities that he might need are. 

In the end he gets _so_ fed up of Olivia trying to be the good host that he rises his eyebrows pointedly and asks her, "Do I have somewhere to work _privately_ if I need to, whilst I am here?"

She looks flustered for a mere moment, before her lips tighten. "Of course sir." She takes him back downstairs and along a hallway, before she shows him into a small, but functional office space. 

"Since when did you call me _sir?"_ He steps through the open door that she holds. Olivia doesn't say a word. "That will be all," he directs his statement to the two members of staff who have followed them this far. "I think Miss. Pope and I can take it from here." He shoots them a brief smile. 

"Yes sir." They bow their heads and scuttle away nervously.

Olivia joins him in the room, but she leaves the door ajar. When he goes to close it she says, "I'd prefer it to be open."

"Well, _I'd_ prefer it to be shut." He gives her a stormy look, before he closes the door anyway. 

She looks for a moment as if she might open it, but in the end she changes tack, "I'd like it if you could _not_ be so dismissive of my staff. Everyone's worked hard to make _you_ look good today."

"Have they? Or have they done it to make your new _country_ look good?" A muscle clenches in Fitz's jaw, though he is happy at least about Olivia acting more like herself. 

_"Fitz"-_

"What the hell is going on here Liv?" She opens her mouth, but he gets there first, "Do you _know_ how much I've wanted to make this visit happen? Do you have any idea how _lonely_ I've been since you've left? But you've been living it up here and when I get here you act like we're _complete_ and utter strangers"-

"You _gave_ me this job"-

"Yeah I did, so you'd have your space, but haven't you had _enough_ by now? Aren't you ready to come back _home?"_ he asks her desperately. 

"Is that an order by the _President?"_ she's irked. "Are you recalling me? Or do you just want me to be there, so that whenever you're fed up of your wife you can come to _me_ instead? Treat me like a confidant, an advisor, a whore, your _mistress"-_

_"Don't_ call yourself that," he growls, grabbing onto her arm, whilst a momentary anger darts across his eyes. She looks at him. He loosens his hold upon her. "You _know_ that you mean more to me than that." He feels regretful. 

_"Do_ I?" her question is soft and it stings him. 

"If you came back I'd..." He offers her a bit of a hopeless smile and rakes a hand through his wavy hair. "It's not just _me._ Cy's job is _twice_ as hard without you there."

She gives him a bit of a rueful smile. "I meant to tell you." She takes a small step back from him, so that she can look at him properly. "About him _knowing_ about us."

"It doesn't matter." He shakes his head, eyes intent and full of anguish as they stare at her. 

She seems _keen_ to tell him all about it anyway. "He knew before, about me intending to resign"-Fitz only allows himself to feel a _little_ bit hurt that it's something that she'd talked over with Cyrus, before him, as Cyrus _is_ her mentor after all-"Then when I _didn't,"_ she shrugs, "He kind of figured it out." She looks at him meaningfully now, as if there is something _more_ that she is trying to tell him and something _prickles_ at Fitz too, as if there is something not quite right about what she has just said, but he's too consumed with trying to resolve _them_ in that moment to pay it any proper attention. 

"Would you take your old job back _willingly_ if I offered it to you?" 

Olivia seems to consider it for a moment and then she gives him a small smile. "We should be starting to get ready for tonight." She turns and leaves him in the room. He looks after her with a _forlorn_ sort of calculatedness about him. 

*

As Cyrus might have said there's an inevitability to the night. Fitz can't take his eyes off Olivia in her stunning red dress. Even when his attention is _meant_ to be elsewhere his eyes cannot help but _dart_ to Olivia from time to time and inject him with the sight of her view. 

It's not only that. He feels _comfortable_ having her with him too. It feels _natural_ for her to be introducing him to people. He allows himself a little fantasy of having her by his side all the time, not _only_ to take the lead with people that _she_ is more familiar with than him, but as his First Lady. They could see the remaining time of his Presidency out together, whether that would involve a second-term or not. Then they could go wherever they wanted. _Be_ whoever they wanted.

"What?" she seems to be more interested in looking at his face and wonder _why_ he is looking at her like that than doing much more than _sipping_ at her wine. He's aware that Olivia has high standards as far as wine is concerned, so it might just mean that it's poor quality, but in that moment he _feels_ hope.

"Can't you see that it could be like this _forever_ Livvie?" She looks a bit put off by the idea and like she might run so he adds, "Let it be like this for tonight at least? For one minute?" he encourages her.

*

Their mouths practically lock as soon as they get to the house. They barely manage to scramble away from the staff and get to one of the bedrooms. Fitz isn't sure that it is either one of theirs, but in that moment he doesn't _care._ Their lips fall sloppily and needily against one another and their lovemaking is frantic.

*

Afterwards, when they are just lying there, their bodies tangled in the sheets and one another, but still somehow partially visible and _gleaming_ in the soft lamp light, Fitz strokes at Olivia's hair. He thinks that they might _both_ fall asleep soon. Olivia wriggles closer to him and breathes contentedly and Fitz feels _grateful_ as ever that their one minute had turned into several. He thinks back on the day. Despite the way that things had been between them initially it had become full of promise as time had gone on, but one thing still niggles away at him. It takes him a moment to realize that it had been what _Olivia_ had said about Cyrus. 

"Why would Cyrus figure it out from you not resigning?" he asks her. "It's not like he's ever had any _reason_ to think that we are anything more than just close friends. We've been as careful as we can be. It's not like he ever burst into the Oval and saw us kissing or anything."

_"What?"_ She draws her gaze up to him, before she tenses at his serious gaze and as she figures out what he has just said. 

He sits up and frowns at her. "Did you _give_ something about us away to Cyrus? Were you in two _minds_ about whether you should be resigning or not? But it's not like you to be so open Livvie. So I'm gonna presume that, that didn't happen." Something grows defensive inside of her at that fact, but a larger part of her _sinks_ because of it. "Was there something at _stake_ from you resigning? Something so _large_ that Cyrus thought there was no _way_ that you wouldn't do it? Larger than just Mellie breathing down your neck and the flag pin? Then when you didn't, he...he worked out about _us_ at that stage. But what was so at _stake_ from you resigning? If it wasn't _us..._ what have Cyrus and you been keeping from me?" 

The truth hitches inside her throat as _well_ as her breath. Fitz knows her too well and _despite_ their distance from one another he hasn't forgotten anything about her. She could try and backtrack, make the thing that Fitz _already_ believes to be a lie the real story... _or_ she can confess to him the truth. The truth that has bothered her and eaten away at her even in a different country. The truth that she doesn't think will _allow_ Fitz and her to have a happily-ever-after as long as it is still between them. _So,_ with a vague hope that _somehow_ they might still be able to have a future, she tells him, sitting up herself and speaking mostly to the sheets, about Defiance and the election rigging, her heart _barely_ beating she is so afraid of his reaction. When she's done she looks up at him. She sees a hurt and betrayal that is even _greater_ in his eyes than she'd imagined it would be and is forced to look down. 

Fitz doesn't say anything for a long while, but she can _feel_ a growing anger building up inside him. "So when you said that I'd make a great President-?"

_"None_ of that was a lie," she's quick to assure him. 

"But you didn't _believe_ in me," it sounds childish as soon as he's said it, but her not thinking the best of him hurts _more_ than he could have ever predicted it would. He can cope with Mellie and Cyrus's betrayal, though, those hurt too of course, and he would _not_ have expected anything else from Hollis Doyle. Verna Thornton he would have _hoped_ for better from, but he is _used_ to people being ambitious in Washington D.C. But _Olivia..._ the fact that the person who he considers to be his _soul_ mate had not thought him capable of winning fairly...

When he looks at Olivia she understands in that moment that she won't _ever_ be communications director again, that the offer of a job at home is _off,_ that she might as well give up on this one too and set up Olivia Pope and Associates after all, for now it is _Fitz_ who is in need of space, from _her..._


End file.
